


Come and see

by justmariamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood, Dead People, Disturbing Themes, Fallen Angel Michael (Supernatural), Gen, Hallucinations, Hellhounds, How Do I Tag, Literary References & Allusions, POV Second Person, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-30 23:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10886919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justmariamay/pseuds/justmariamay
Summary: Mikhail is happy to simply live his life, teach ancient languages at the University for ridiculous salary, play with his cat and have small talks with his flatmate. Demons, hellhounds and four horsemen of Apocalypse are only part of the scenery.





	Come and see

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Asexual Supernatural Mini Bang. First thing first, asexuality is more of an important detail than a theme here. Art is by [lux-tuli](https://lux-tuli.tumblr.com/), eternal thanks for putting up with my indecisive and frustrating self.

_Don’t leave the room, don’t make the mistake and run._  
_If you smoke Shipkas, why do you need Suns?_  
_Things are silly out there, especially the happy clucks._  
_Just go to the john, and come right back._

 _Oh, don’t leave the room, don’t ring for a car._  
_Because space consists of a corridor_  
_And ends with a counter. And should a floozy slip in,_  
_Flashing her teeth, make her scram without stripping._

 _Don’t leave the room, feign that you’ve caught a chill._  
_What could be more fun than four walls and a chair?_  
_Why leave this place only to come back late in_  
_The evening same as you were, moreover, mutilated?_

 _Oh, don’t leave the room. Dance the bossa nova_  
_In shoes but no socks, a coat over your naked bod._  
_The hallway reeks of ski wax and cabbage._  
_You wrote a lot of letters: one more would be too much._

 _Don’t leave the room. Oh, just let the room imagine_  
_What you look like. And generally, incognito_  
_Ergo sum, as form was told in anger by substance._  
_Don’t leave the room! Methinks out there it ain’t France._

 _Don’t be a fool! Don’t be like the others._  
_Don’t leave the room! I.e., let the furniture have its druthers,_  
_Blend in with the wallpaper. Lock up and let the armoire_  
_Keep outside chronos, cosmos, eros, race, and virus._

_Joseph Brodsky_

 

 

What brought you here, I wonder? It's slush and wet cold all around, not to mention gloomy atmosphere that's so natural for such places. A graveyard. You are supposed to be here, but do you remember where your parents are buried? Here. Somewhere. But where exactly? See? You have forgotten.

Snowflakes start covering your head and shoulders. Didn't your mother taught you to wear hat? No, of course she didn't. As the snow melts on your face you are all of sudden filled with sureness, that your parents aren't dead. You remember their funerals, your mother outlived father for few years. And you clearly remember their names. But they don't sound real. It's like people with such names, such common names, never existed. Not for you. What's the point though? They left you behind anyway.

You can barely feel your fingers around green plastic stem of artificial flowers you brought. A caw of a crow on a tombstone sends almost painful shudder through your cold exhausted body. You don't hope to find your parents' graves tonight, but still you are not in hurry to leave. Or maybe, you feel like you belong here, don't you? Can you imagine yourself down there, sleeping in the tight wooden box? You do, you can and it doesn't even bother you.

"Can I help you, young man?" quiet voice pulls you out of the web you start to weave with white and black threads.

A man stands behind you. He wears a coat too, but unlike you he doesn't seem cold at all. He seems old and not old at the same time. He could be 50, could be 70, hard to say. You don't reply trying to remember what he's just said.

"Are you lost?" he leans on his cane and you cast your eyes down like a guilty child. Well, you are, aren't you?

"No, I... I know the way out."

"Do you really?" he looks at you dubiously. You feel like he knows you. Like he knows better than you. Now that wouldn't be a big surprise.

"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you," you bow slightly and leave, giving up finding your parents' graves completely. You drop red plastic flowers on some fresh grave on your way. It's getting dark. You leave, soon forgetting you've ever... ever what?

******

You stop on the riverwalk not feeling like going home yet despite the nasty weather. Ah, well... is it ever nice in this city? People shouldn’t live here. Everybody knows it, even you.

You watch the bridge raised and an old man joins you. He wheezes out:

"You often come here, don't you?"

"I do," you answer not having will to politely look him in the eye before you speak.

"What a sight..." It's beautiful. Beyond words. "You know when this city was truly beautiful..."

It sounds strange. It certainly isn't a question. Almost a statement.

"I was here during 900-day siege. Leningrad became so empty and quiet save for occasional bomber in the sky. And... I think this city has never been more beautiful: empty streets, lifeless temples, you wouldn't even see a rat outside..." old man smiles nostalgically. "But I guess it's not that strange," he chuckles.

"What do you mean?" you ask without any wish to know. Because you already do.

"She's never been welcome to people, built during the war to show power, more than 100 thousand died to construct this beauty on marshy ground. And then... floods, crime terrorism, three revolutions, siege, not to mention that consumption wasn't that uncommon here. It was just another act of defiance from human race, in challenge to nature."

You can easily imagine all those lights disappearing, leaving you in the dark among magnificent architecture, you can almost see the river dressed in stone rebelling and flooding the streets, you can hear the march of heavy soldier’s boots on the pavement. You glance at the old man and it becomes clear, he feels the same.

"How old are you?" you ask suddenly. Why should it bother you?

"Old," he replies simply. "How old are you?" there is some not mean kind of mockery in the question asked back. But you don't pay attention either way, because... you don't know the right answer, do you? Are you what? 23? 25? 28? Perhaps even 30? You just can't remember. You can't remember what year is now. But believe me, it doesn't matter how old you are, because you've never grown up. Old man laughs at your obvious confusion. You’ve never failed to amuse him.

"Do we know each other?" you didn't mean to say that.

"Do we? I know you, I know you well," he looks at you fondly and you can’t believe he would if he knew you.

"I... I'm sorry, I don't remember," liar, you are not sorry. You never are. Yet you apologize every time.

"It's fine. It's not me you should remember. It's you," he sees right into you, into your little apathetic heart, pulling your ribs apart with his gaze.

"Wh-"

"Why are you here, child? Why here?” he shows around.

It doesn't make sense to you, but it's not an excuse for the lamest answer ever:

"I don't know. I like it here," well, at least it's true.

"It's alright, to not remember. Sometimes I forget things too, sometimes I want to forget, but..." his spiderlike hand locks around your wrist with crushing power and for the first time in years you feel alive. One simple touch makes everything hurt. Your new (or old?) friend's features are blurry, like hundreds of transparent masks overlaying each other. Each of them is him and yet none of them are. "When you remember, let's meet here again and enjoy the true beauty of this place together. Promise?" he asks with hopeful smile.

"Yes," you say. You never could say 'no'.

Finally going home, you notice something has changed. Maybe it's air. Suddenly you can't seem to have enough of it.

******

You come home much later than you estimated. You don’t seem to try hard enough to catch time. The light in your windows are on. Your flatmate and lodger is still home. He usually is gone by this time, working mostly nightshifts. What is it? Don’t want a company?

Key turns easily. Azazel meets you in the entry way. Big black yellow-eyed monster rubs against your leg showing who really owns whom. You hold the door for him:

“Wanna go outside?” you offer, knowing your cat just loves going for a walk in the evening. He always comes back. When your dad brought him, he was just a kitten, but never lost the taste of the street life.

Azazel just sits down and watches you intently.

“In a domestic mood for once, huh?” you scratch behind his ear before closing the door and unshoding. Your coat is wet. And there is dirt on your trousers. Looks like tomorrow you’ll go teaching wearing jeans, because you don’t feel like starting a laundry now.

You go to kitchen to wash your hands. Your flatmate is boiling something on the stove.

“Dinner?” he offers.

“It’s ten o’clock,” you point out. You are hungry though.

“Late supper then,” he turns it around diplomatically. Looks like he’s not giving you a choice. Would be impolite to refuse.

Supper turns out to be some noodles with a sausage. Cheap, simple and edible. You finish it quickly and go to fill the kettle.

Lucifer (what a weird name to have) start a conversation. Or rather, he speaks – you listen. He has a nice voice. And clever opinions.

Suddenly Azazel enters the kitchen and meows loudly, announcing that he’s hungry too. His bowl is still full, what a capricious animal.

“I never asked, why Azazel?” he picks up the cat who just hangs down without any sign of discomfort. “You are fan of Akunin?”

“Actually, he’s not a big fan of him. He ruined the book we named him after in more ways than one,” you laugh.

“Ooh, severe critic, aren’t you?” Lucifer rubs cat’s neck, who welcomes the attention with loud purring. “Real angel of death.”

“Dad wanted to name him Lucifer,” you mention and suddenly realize how weird this situation is.

But Lucifer just laughs it off and you are grateful. You don’t say how stupid you find having such name. You pretty sure it’s just a pseudonym and his actual name can be anything from Luka to Leopold. You are supposed to know, you saw his passport, but you can’t remember which it was. But you never say that either. Although it suits him, somehow. Perhaps, it’s his devilish charm.

Anyway, a frustrating day has finished better than you thought it would.

You are almost asleep when your phone dings. You shouldn’t even reach for it, too late to read some ad messages. The screen flashes a little too bright in the darkness of your room, the words read: “YOU GOTTA GET ME OUT OF HERE”. The number unrecognized. Seems important, though whoever it is they probably dialed the wrong number. Tempted to fall back asleep, you still try to call. Only silence and then pretty female voice announcing that the dialed number doesn’t exist. You don’t sleep well the rest of the night.

******

Next day is okay. You’ve been yawning during the first class, but so have all of the students, so it doesn’t count. Some of your older colleagues comment on your unprofessional appearance, but you simply point out that there is no such rule that prohibits wearing jeans. Other than that, it’s a comfortable routine. You are not even a bit tired when it’s over.

You sit on the bench at the stop next to a pale girl in black baggy jacket.

“Hey, I know you,” the girl says.

She looks sick. Big black bags under her big green eyes. Black hair and pale skin. Reminds anyone? No? Red scarf suits her. The big ring with a green stone doesn’t seem to belong to such thin hands. Maybe she’s a student.   

“I work here,” you point at the university building.

“Cool.” She sneezes loudly and swears, huddling from the wind. “This goddamn weather!”

“Bless you,” you say politely. You feel sorry for her.

“Thanks,” she says and sneezes again. “I hate it. Can’t I have a break? If it’s not a cold, it’s something much worse,” she complains.

You were lucky, you were seriously ill only few times in your life.

“Wish you get better.”

She laughs bitterly, black hair fall on her face.

“I can never tell if you mock me or sincerely wish me health.” Never? Does it mean it’s not the first time? “Ok, my bus. See you.”

She briefly touches your arm and hurries to the bus before you can ask her anything. She waves you from the window.

You don’t think for long about it as your bus comes in five minutes. It’s just your terrible memory for names and faces. Really strange thing happens later when you get to your building.

With a corner of your eye you notice something out of place. Something among the evening shadows, something darker than them. First you think it’s a cat. Maybe it’s even your cat.

But when you look closer it doesn’t look like any animal you know. This is thing with a tail and pair of horns looks both disgusting and somehow cute. And it makes strange annoying noises.

Then it comes closer and bites. You are not surprised or scared. You’re merely annoyed. It couldn’t bite through the thick denim. You kick the strange creature away. It squeaks and climbs up the nearest lamp post. Poor thing.

You run your hand down your face and keep going, turning once to see the demon sticking its forked tongue at you. You don’t think as you return the gesture. How mature of you. 

Looks like someone is losing his mind.

******

You see the creature next day. And the next. And it’s not the only one. They follow you around the city, teasing you, mocking you.

You never made it to the cemetery again, so you decide to drop by a church and at least light two candles for your parents’ peace. Something tells you it would be a right thing to do, to remain a good son, but for whom? For two dead people? Or for yourself? You’ve never even been overly religious, despite having read the Bible in Latin, Old Greek and Church Slavonic languages, and of course in translation when you were younger. Weird to know so many prayers by heart without any intention to ever pray. Well, it comes with the profession.

Black demons don’t follow you there, that’s a relief. You buy two candles from a very old lady. Now light them, pretend to pray and leave. Simple, right? But your candles flicker out as soon as you put them with all the others. You try again, but it’s like someone invisible blows them right after you light them.

You briefly close your eyes and look up at the painted wall and ceiling. You notice the common composition of archangel Michael and other angels. It’s the abundance of red that catches your attention, like… like the image bleeds. Crimson streaks run down the serene faces and soft wings.

You shake your head but a vision remans. But you are sure nobody else can see that, so it doesn’t matter.

You look back at the candles and see that all of them have lost their fire. There is another holder, but you decide against trying again. You’ll do only worse. That’s why you quickly cross yourself and leave under heavy gazes of saints and angels, shivering from cold.

******

You make through few more days pretending you’re not ill in the slightest. Sore throat can be temporarily fixed by pills and spray.

You can tolerate the chill and minor headache. Just common cold, right? But what about the little demons you see in every corner? You can’t buy a medicine from that in a pharmacy, not without a prescription from psychiatrist anyway.

That annoying little thing has been laughing for half an hour. High-pitched sounds is coming from the corner of the classroom and ringing in your head echoed by dull pain. But you can’t do anything about it. Your students won’t understand if you start yelling at empty space to shut up. 

What were you telling about? Ah, the prefix ‘κατά-’. Behind it is the action of moving downwards, undoing, breaking. Disease. Destruction. Death. Catabolism, cataract, catalepsy, catatonia, catacombs, cataclysm, catastrophe, etc. Those words create surprisingly calming pattern and you keep repeating them at the back of your mind even as it becomes quieter when you manage to lock the door after classes before the little demon can sneak out. Small victory, but satisfying.     

Maybe you are not right in the head, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to return a book you took for your article to the library. Rules are rules.

On the way, a graffiti on the wall catches your eye. Big red letters with familiar message: GET ME OUT OF HERE. Paint looks fresh and impossibly bright on a grey wall. But your attention switches to some seemingly unremarkable person. Just another man that muffles himself up into scarf from wind and cold. But the way he shifts and glances around… he’s scared, not cold. He disappears into an alley and something makes you follow. Curiousity killed the cat, remember?

How do you think to find him? And what if you do? This city, once you leave the big streets, is a labyrinth. It’s so easy to get lost. But it takes you just few minutes as you hear muffled screams. A shriek behind the next corner is cut short and you rush there. Strong smell of sulfur hits your nose. And you witness a gruesome picture. The man on the ground is most certainly dead judging by a giant wound where his neck was. Somehow you notice the beasts that have done it much later than you notice the body. Dogs. Or they look a lot like dogs. Way too big for strays. And those dogs are so… hungry. They rip the body apart. Bones breaking loudly, wet disgusting noises as they bite in.

You should run now while they’re busy. Retreat few steps turn around and run before they notice you. Good idea, isn’t it? You make a step back, without a sound. No such luck. One of the dogs notices you. It stares at you with its black-black eyes and you freeze on the spot. The other is still trying to bite off another chunk of flesh. Never thought you’d be eaten by a stray rabid dog, did you? The dog hasn’t moved yet, so you could try and run. But you forget even how to breath. Blood and foam is dripping from its mouth, it holds something between its teeth, some part of the poor dead guy. Dirty paws begin to move. It doesn’t rush at you, instead it approaches carefully as if afraid that _you_ will hurt it. Claws scrape against old cracked pavement. The dog stops just a step away in front of you, staring up in your eyes and letting out half-growl half-whine.

You breath out slowly, as quiet as you can. The dog wants your attention, obviously. It lightly pushes your hand with its wet muzzle and sniffs. Blind thoughts inside your skull have no power over your body, so it moves on its own. Your fingers open and something drops on your palm. Feels like a wet warm rubber ball. You don’t have to look, you know what it is. Just minutes ago, it was beating in that man’s chest.  

Making sure you hold it tight the dog wags its tail, barks once and goes back to finish its dinner. You just stand there and watch. And watch. And watch. There is nothing else to do. What surprises you is how easy it is for you. Maybe it’s another hallucination. Only blood dripping heart in your hand is telling otherwise.     

The beasts finally leave and you can swear they are carrying away something invisible but tangible in their teeth. Not being able to bring yourself come closer to what’s left of the body, you slowly turn around and walk back to the busy street, throwing already cold organ in the trash bin. How heartless of you. But then, it’s just a dead meat, isn’t it?

******

Needless to say, visit to the library is postponed. When you get home you mercilessly rub your hands under hot water for ten minutes until you can barely feel them.

You drop on the sofa half undressed and rub your sore eyes. Fever, definitely. The bed is just few steps away behind the door. If only your legs could carry you.

“Are you okay?” question catches you off guard. Lucifer is hovering above you. You can’t look at him.

You want to tell him, don’t you? About little black demons chasing you for the whole day. About bleeding wall in a church. About dogs that ripped a person apart and even shared their prey with you. Ah, aren’t you crazy?

“I don’t know.”

That’s an answer to anything, really. Safest kind of answer, nor wrong, nor right, not outright denying a real answer. But what is it, are you having frog in your throat? Have you caught a cold? Or cold has caught you?

You force yourself to look up and find that you shouldn’t have. Because you are seeing things again. Lucifer looks strange. Everything is the same but it’s like he’s dressed in gold and stars and snow crystals are sparkling in his hair. Are those wings behind his back? Yes, they are and they are covered with hoarfrost. He’s beautiful. And terrifying to no end. Only you are not afraid.  

You blink once. Twice. The vision doesn’t go away.

His hand touches your neck and feels like ice against your feverish skin. Fingers wrap around your throat and squeeze it. Slowly, but you know should he want to he’ll snap your neck without effort. Your eyes close on their own, returning you into the darkness. Darkness of your own, the one you can selfishly keep behind your eyelids. It’s yours, no one else’s.

“Look at me, Mikhail,” Lucifer orders. His voice is cold. The pressure isn’t gone or even weakened.

What does he want from you? What can you give him? You have nothing. But you open your eyes. And he is still there, in all his glory. He speaks the language you don’t understand. You just listen to the melodic flow of his voice. It’s over too soon. He looks at you expecting answers. You have none.

“Why don’t you ever say something?” he looks very upset.

“Why should I? You never ever listen, angel,” you whisper, digging out this knowledge from your bones.

Light disappears leaving only sound. Then sound disappears leaving only cold. The shreds of consciousness slip away and you fall into feverish oblivion.

You feel fine when you wake up early in the morning. Yesterday stayed in nightmares where it belongs. You sure are peachy, as you sip your tea and watch Azazel chasing around the kitchen another little squeaky demon.

******

Is something wrong again? Of course it is. But this time this wrongness makes your skin crawl. Too quiet. And you thought it never could be too quiet. Not for the past two weeks. You look around the auditorium and at first it seems fine. Your students are just thinking deeply over some trickish problem, you gave them more than one. Only that never happens. Not like this. Even during exams you hear little noises: foot tapping, pens scribing, teeth gnawing pencils, just breathing. Now you can’t hear clocks ticking on the wall behind you, the sound you got used to so long ago.

Careful. You don’t want to break this silence just yet. No need to be afraid. Enjoy the moment while you can.

You carefully touch a young man in the first row, shake his shoulder. He slides down on the desk. Sleeping. Peacefully. All twenty-eight are asleep. I’d blame your boring course, but we both know it’s not the case. You turn around, the clock has stopped. It’s already dark and it’s snowing outside. Do you want to skip classes? You naughty child.

You exit the classroom into the crowded but silent hallway and carefully pass between teachers and students, take your coat and walk out.

Poor people are freezing. Or maybe they won’t feel anything when they wake up? If they wake up. No, it’s ridiculous. Perhaps you’re imagining things again. Or maybe it’s time catching up with itself forgetting you exist. Where did you take that idea from?

The only living creature is the familiar dog that follows you home, cheerfully wagging its torn tail.  

******

******

Your windows are lit. And more than that, you catch a motion between the curtains with you annoyingly sharp eyes. But you don’t obey the first urge to start and run up there. Home. Home? Really? But perhaps that’s exactly why you contemplate. But, whatever. Go.

You run up the stairs, by the time you are at your floor you are shivering all over. Your hands are shaking and you put the key into the lock after the fourth attempt.

But Lucifer opens the door for you.

“You’re early today,” he notices.

“I skipped classes,” you admit. You don’t explain that time just stopped and you didn’t feel like waiting for it.  

“Ooh, well done, professor!” Lucifer praises. You knew he’d approve. But it’s not a big deal. Your students will just leave their works to the department secretary. If not they’ll get an F.

You hurry to change. Or more like, undress completely and put on only sweatpants. You find Lucifer in the kitchen coddling Azazel. You really were delirious that evening.

You come to the window trying to see if the reality is working again. It seems just as dead.

“Got a smoke?” you ask Lucifer. A wish to fill lungs with something but winter air is irresistible, never mind that you quit the bad habit in school. A cigarette won’t make things any better, but also won’t make them any worse.   

His eyebrows go up, but then he grins.

“Everything for you, your highness,” he jokes and reaches to his back pocket.

You roll your eyes and look back into the black glass. Whatever you are looking for. Jacob’s Ladder or an UFO. You open the window despite being cold, but you are not going to smoke inside. Better put on a sweater, but you, incorrigible like that, just sit on the window sill and bent one knee to turn more towards blind sleepy sky.

You put provided cigarette in your mouth and let Lucifer light it. You cough at first for want of habit, but it gets easier after the second drag.

Lucifer sits next to your foot and takes the cigarette from your mouth, takes a drag and then returns it. His hand rests on your knee naturally, like it belongs there. You keep passing the cigarette to each other, without looking at each other, just sharing the poison. You blow the smoke into the evening air, he blows it in your face, which you don’t find a will to mind. Smoke envelops your empty head. Your hair is going to smell. Your eyes tear up a little.  

You stare at your palm, not recognizing the lines, when sudden heat pierces it. Lucifer is stubbing out the cigarette on your hand. Grey ash bites into your skin hungrily. You squeeze your eyes shut but otherwise only welcome pain, because it belongs here with you, it’s the only kind of purity you are allowed. Finally, Lucifer throws the stub out the window. You close your palm and dig fingers into the burn, Lucifer’s hand that feels unexpectedly warm covers yours and helps to chase the dying fire deeper down under your skin.

He smiles at you, a bit sad, a bit proud, a bit something else you can’t find a name to.

“Let’s close the window, it’s cold.”   

Like he hasn’t given you a bad burn just before, you simply nod and stand up from the window stool and realize you can barely feel your toes. There is that unpleasant tingle on your fingertips as you breathe out on your hands.

Window is closed, curtains are drawn. Right hand hurts. Otherwise you feel much better.

“Mish,” Lucifer calls quietly.

“Yeah?” you reply without facing him.

“I really want to kiss you,” he says.

Part of you wants to laugh at him, really – who burns people with cigarettes and then wants to kiss them?

“Are you asking for permission?” funny, he didn’t need a permission to hurt you. Then again, who ever does? Right, nobody.

“Let’s say I do,” he pulls your arm to make you face him.

Something vulnerable shines in his eyes. You can’t say ‘no’. You don’t have to say ‘yes’. But you want to. Not because you are god forbid in love with your undeniably attractive lodger, but because… just because.

You haven’t kiss anyone in years, haven’t had anyone this close, avoided relationships at all cost, because it would be unfair to another person. All curiousity died during your late teenage years after few unlucky experiments.

Whatever. You pull him in. His lips taste like ash and your mouth tastes like blood. You think that’s how it’s supposed to be. A moment, and he pulls away and laughs. You are a terrible kisser. You laugh too and pull away, or at least attempt to.

“I missed you so much,” hot breath on your neck. Warm tongue licking the shell of your ear. Strong possessive arm wrapped around your middle. Funny that only thing that comes to your not very keen mind is that you are being taken for someone else. But no, you are taken for who you really are. But any version of you is not used to this kind of treatment. You want to ask what is he doing. You don’t. Isn’t it obvious after all?

“Missed me?” you repeat, breath caught in your throat.

Lucifer confirms with a soft hum that makes air vibrate. He cards his fingers through your hair and you don’t want to ask anything. You don’t want to know. He leads you to your room, to your bed… You need to make it stop before it gets awkward and weird. But his kisses never get deep. Simple tender touches without expectations. It weirds you out, but you lean into every single one of them. It almost feels like love. Almost. You want to love him back. But the winter has settled in your heart and blizzard has conquered your mind. You don’t know how.

Tiny needles pierce your skin everywhere, something inexplicably dark and hot breaking the numbing ice. You refuse to see. You refuse to listen. You hide from it in Lucifer.

Lucifer. Lucifer. Lucifer.

It’s alright. Somehow you know that two of you won’t wake up next to each other in the morning.  

******

You wake up in your bed. It’s almost morning. You wake up alone as you knew you would. As if nothing happened yesterday. And really, nothing happened. Nothing important except for one thing.

You remember now. Who you were. Or rather, who you are. There’s simply no one else you can be. And yet… you threw it all into Baltic sea. Everything. Your electric heart. Your snowy wings. You poured your boiling blood upon its waves. You shed your skin and washed your naked flesh in these salty dark waters.

You feel too little, not nearly enough. As if it’s irrelevant mundane thing to realize you use to be an angel, that angel you saw so many temples dedicated to. Perhaps it is not that shaking. Still, you could have taken it more seriously. Azazel jumps on your bed and curls right on your chest, purring softly and contently. Big yellow eyes blink slowly at you. Warm, heavy… Azazel. You blink back unwelcome tears and stroke soft black fur. Funny coincidence. But no. There is no such thing when it’s about you.

It reminds you that you never said goodbye. You just… fell. And fell. And now? What now?

Adam. You left him to rot in Hell. Gabriel. You couldn’t save him. Raphael. Dead because of you. Because you weren’t there. You coward. Heartless son of a bitch. You chose the worst moment to be selfish. And you couldn’t do even that right. Anna fell because she wanted to be happy, to feel warmth of others’ bodies. And you? You are even more lonely than you were before, drowning in words, words, words and nothing else. How stupid is it, when there are only two words that can describe everything, when everything can fit right in between them? Cosmos. Chaos.  

Azazel’s rough tongue licks your fingers before biting them slightly. You laugh and it hurts. Something gnaws at you from inside and it has teeth much sharper.  

“Good kitty,” you say. “Who’s a good kitty?”

Black cat meows in reply and closes his eyes falling asleep.

Lucifer. What was he doing here? You must find him. Or so you think. You could stay. After all, you abandoned your divinity, hoping you won’t have to see him ever again. But as soon as he reappeared, standing outside your door smiling brightly, you welcomed him.

You cover your face with a pillow, powerless and guilty.

******

You wake again and regret it. Your head aches horribly. After putting it under cold shower you remember that you have to look for Lucifer.

You go down the stair and hear music. The flat on the 3rd floor, the door is opened. Can Lucifer be here? There is loud and cheerful party going on. You enter Nobody knows you here, nobody cares. No one asks you who you are. No one will bother to make you tea or offer to sit. But it’s okay. You find a place near the radiator and try to warm your drenched and cold missing wings. Only guitar strings make an attempt to reach you and start quiet conversation. But what a shame, the guitarist has had a bit too much of alcohol.

He is not here. You think he’d like it. Wouldn’t he enjoy too look how lovers break apart, how so many lives get shattered over nothing, how dreams drown without finding its pier during this short moment of supposed happiness?

You watch all these people and they seem so real, so alive, unrepentant and unforgiving. Fragile. Beautiful. How could someone made all this up? And why would anyone hate them for such imperfection? That you could never understand. Lucifer never forgave them taking his place in His heart. But couldn’t he make them love him more than God instead? He could, it was impossible not to love him, but he despised their love. He despised your love as well.  

One person looks familiar. It’s not Lucifer, but… The guy getting into a fight with someone… wasn’t he your classmate or?.. Wait. You walk over and pull him away from the group.

“Man, it could be so much fun,” he complains. “You’re lucky I like you.”

War. War getting into a petty fight over nothing. Well, sounds like him alright.

You are confused. The words refuse to form. He laughs and shows you to follow him. Once you’re outside you think about turning around and go back home. And never leave again. But that door is already closed.

You walk side by side and the urge to just run gets stronger. Not from fear. Not from anything in particular. Not from a hellhound that carefully steps in the shadows behind you.

“Here,” you call it. Its muzzle is dirty with blood. It means someone died. It also has another gift for you. A hand without two fingers is put at your feet.  

You crunch down and the dog rolls on its back at first sign of kindness. You rub its stomach and inhale the stench of sulfur.

“Hey, looks like you’ve made a friend,” War pats the dog laughing. “What an ugly girl, I like her.”

A hellhound… apparently, this dog likes human flesh, human souls and you. Questionable tastes. Still you feel a little bit honored by the blind affection of a living creature, even as twisted as it is.

“Come on, go home,” you tell her. “See you later?” Maybe, maybe not. You don’t want to think about later.

She barks and runs away, becoming one with the dark.

“Something is burning,” you notice quietly.

“World is burning,” War replies casually.

“Why?” stupid question.

“Something always has to burn. Woods. Tanks. Reichstag. Rome. Soldiers’ hearts,” he pats your chest.

But it’s cold inside. It shouldn’t be so cold. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“It doesn’t burn,” even your tears feel cold as they run down your face. You never meant to become this cold.  

“Aw, come on. You just need to cheer, brother. And you know, I’ve got just the thing.” He holds out a gun, a six shooter. “Let’s play,” he offers.

Russian roulette. Game for idiots. It describes you and your friend rather well. He goes first, right at the spot where you stopped. Then it’s your turn. Then his.

Click. Click. Click. Bang.

The bullet hits your temple. You see red. You drown in red. Then it’s all black. Then it’s white.

******

You open your eyes on the cemetery. Wet snow flakes are falling and falling, trying to hide the world from your sight behind its soft veil. You are lying on someone’s grave. Your body is limp and disobedient. No wonder, there is a hole in your head. You’d fall asleep but the dreams are squeamish about residing under leaky roofs, so they escape leaving no trace. Only wind and fresh snow inside.

“Wake up, child,” quiet order makes you open your eyes.

You stare at amazingly clear sky, stars are scattered all around like beads of quicksilver. And it’s so close, you could reach out your hand and grasp it.

A cane taps your ankle urging you to get up. You obey.

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” you apologize.

“You never think, child,” Death dismisses. “Tell me, are you lost?” he asks again.

“No, I know the way out,” you repeat. Now you really do.

“Show me then.”

You can’t tell him ‘no’.

“Sure,” you say softly.

You take him by the sleeve and lead the way: complicated maze among the graves and statues of weeping angels, black metal gates, incense-scented chapels, empty city lighted by lamps and advertisement posts, river-walk, slumbering ships dreaming their own iron dreams.

Death follows silently, his siblings are already waiting on the bridge, leaning on the railing.

Coming closer you notice that Pestilence is holding your cat. Maybe Azazel isn’t your cat after all.

“There you are,” War beacons you to them.

He says something else but it drowns in the sound of waves, which hit their white curly heads against granite again and again. The Bronze Horseman stands still watching over the city. Two hoofs piercing the empty darkness, other two firmly buried in the ground. He wants to break free and rush at a gallop. But where? Is there a way?

It’s scary, isn’t it? But even more, it’s funny. Every damn time when the world decided to fall apart, you were there to hold it together. And then you thought, maybe it was time to let go? And what, make every of your efforts go in vain? Your brothers’ deaths? Their long unjust suffering?

Lucifer… Is he?..

“Where is Lucifer?” you ask the four.

“You know where,” Pestilence shrugs. Azazel mews.

Yes, you know. Right there, in Hell. He’s never been here, never had a chance to spend a July night by this sea drenching in warm heavy rain. He was only in your head. And the copy you created didn’t do him justice. But even such a poor copy managed to destroy your numb world.

 _Let’s walk off the chessboard._ It sounded so fake. He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t possibly give up everything he stood by. Not him. And you…

“Miss him already?” Famine interrupts your thoughts. His voice is weak, but the power it holds over mortals and immortals is incomparable.

“I…” it doesn’t matter what you say next.

“We could open your damn cage right now,” War suggests and looks at Death in challenge, waiting for him to deny it. He doesn’t.

So here it is. A chance to finish it, give the world the proper ending rather than let it rot and suffocate slowly.

“There’s nothing here that I didn’t try to save,” you say desperately. Excuses. Trying is not enough. Everyone expected better from you.

Strong hand squeezes your shoulder painfully, making fragile bones creak.

“Salvation is overrated,” War chuckles.  

Maybe it is, but you are not allowed to fight for anything else. You’ll have to fight all four of them too, if you ask them to free Lucifer. Such are the rules. Are you strong enough?

“Are you afraid, child?” Death speaks for the first time since you left the graveyard.

“No, why should I be?” the worst thing that can happen is that you lose, but haven’t you already? What else can anyone take from you? Only your life, but it’s worth nothing if even Death never wanted it.

“Well then,” War jumps on the bridge railing gracefully and looks at you. “Do you trust me?” he offers you his hand.

Him you always trusted. Friend or enemy, he always believed in you more than your own family did. You take his hand without a second thought and he pulls you up. You lose your balance on slippery marble but he doesn’t let you fall yet.

“Too high?”

“Been higher,” you say with bitter sarcasm. Now you can hear your grace singing quietly, calling for you from the depths.

“Gather you feathers, angel. We are not going anywhere,” Pestilence promises.

“It’s gonna hurt,” War whispers into your ear and it’s the only warning you get before he gives you a push.

Fall is the easiest of what is yet to come.

**Author's Note:**

> It's officially the worst and the most unsatisfactory thing I've ever written. Thanks for reading. Feel free to tell me how bad it was.
> 
> ~~Actually, could be a nice set-up for devil!Michael, but I suck...~~


End file.
